<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>A Saccharine Rhapsody by Cats_Dont_Float</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25938778">A Saccharine Rhapsody</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cats_Dont_Float/pseuds/Cats_Dont_Float'>Cats_Dont_Float</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, Music, One Shot, Post-Canon, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock's Violin, Short &amp; Sweet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:28:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,988</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25938778</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cats_Dont_Float/pseuds/Cats_Dont_Float</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything, to Sherlock, every thought or movement or experience, is music. It would take an entire symphony to express how he feels about his new life with John, but for now, there is just a consulting detective in his place at the window with his violin.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Saccharine Rhapsody</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Winter, cold and oppressive and as gloomy as ever, has closed in around London with surprising speed. From his spot by the window of 221B’s living room, violin poised and ready as per usual, Sherlock watches as rain lashes itself down onto the pavement, over already miserable pedestrians as they hurry back and forth on hastey trips, huddled in lurid plastic mackintoshes or under just as grossly colourful umbrellas, shrinking back from the water thrown up by the wheels of cars that scuttle by like strange metallic beetles, the people inside them given some brief superiority to those on the outside only by their current lack of exposure to the elements. Across the way, a neighbour has already hung Christmas lights in their windows, and the faintest sparkle of tinsel on a tree is visible through the cracks in lazily drawn curtains, pulled closed to shut out the miserable weather from the inhabitants minds, but not quite tightly enough to fully erase the inevitability that is the nature of British weather. Winter in London is as comforting as it is familiar, and one side of Sherlock’s mouth draws upwards in fond amusement as he watches a bus cruise by, headlights cutting through the downpour and lighting up the falling rain with an almost beautiful luminescence. When he does move to raise his bow and finally touches it to the strings, he plays the rain into a waltz. Each drawn out note blends into the effortless rhythm the water drums against the window, each movement of his arm in tune to the rivers that wash down the sides of roads, his own body swaying in time to the gentle gusts of wind that buffet the buildings. London and everything that it is blends into everything he plays, just as it always has done.</p><p>Out on the street, the slow but stable drift of traffic is disrupted as a taxi slows to a halt, and Sherlock subconsciously lets the tempo pick up a little as a familiar figure steps out from within, a hand instantly raised upwards as if that alone will protect him from the rain. <em>John</em>. Sherlock had told him that morning to take a coat; the clouds had been heavy with rain from the moment he woke. At least Rosie, strapped closely and protectively now to John’s chest, is in her raincoat, luminous pink and possibly the worst thing Sherlock’s ever laid eyes on, and yet keeping her safe and comfortable all the same. Sherlock draws the luminescence of it into his music, feels his arm tremble a little with the weight it bears into the notes, and slows the tempo again into something softer, more lullaby-esque, as his eyes carefully track the movements of his two favourite people in the world until they disappear, accompanied by the sound of a door swinging open down below. As feet strike the stairs, he sways in time to them, familiar now with the faint stumble brought into the gait by a psychosomatic limp that seems to worsen in bad weather somehow, until the sound of a key in the lock reaches his ears. Then there’s a pause, a moment in which Sherlock catches his breath, draws a note out slowly, careful vibrato echoing through the space, and knows that John, on the other side of the door, has predictably paused to listen before he interrupts. And so he picks up the pace just a little as the door finally swings forwards, much more slowly than the usual energy with which it is thrown open, throwing in a few more bright notes specifically for his doctor as he steps into the flat.</p><p>“Hey,” John calls out as he bustles inside, and Sherlock sinks into a few slow, quiet notes so he can listen as he plays, safe in the knowledge that John will know that he’s paying him attention. “Didn’t get my message to put the kettle on, then?” John asks from somewhere behind Sherlock, accompanied by the sound of Rosie being carefully moved from her place against his chest. Sherlock’s gaze drifts, momentarily, away from the window to where his phone rests on his desk as it has been for hours, a notification alert light blinking to itself, unnoticed.</p><p>“It seems I may have missed that one,” Sherlock admits, turning his attention back to the street outside, not yet turning to look at John. When he does, he will savour the moment, as he does every moment, but for now, just for now, John’s presence alone is enough for the music. He picks up a more familiar waltz, alternating a few of the notes for a more personal feel, and leans his head to one side to watch and make sure a woman outside doesn’t get hit by the taxi she’s just accidentally stepped in front of.</p><p>“Never mind,” John says, “Should have known you had better things to do than check your phone.” Sherlock tracks the tone of his voice carefully, and finds it light and cheeky, a tad teasing, but no sense of real irritation. It seems for once the weather has not dampened John’s spirits. Or perhaps it has, and the return to 221B has raised them again, though there’s no sign of a recovery from melancholy in John’s voice, nor in the sounds of his movements through the flat as he casts aside damp items of clothing.</p><p>The kettle clicks on, and Sherlock adjusts his tune to the faint sound of water bubbling within it and the sound of ceramic clanking together as John searches for their mugs. They have so many, and yet only ever use a distinct few. The posh tea cups Mycroft bought for them as some sort of house warming gift when John moved back in remain unused and still carefully packed away in their box, both of them too fearful of damaging them and feeling slightly too ridiculous to use them.</p><p>“Tea or coffee?” John calls from the kitchen, and Sherlock, for just a second, allows the song to rest.</p><p>“Tea, please,” he calls back, and when, a moment later, the faint scent of Earl Grey reaches him, he works it into the song too. Somewhere behind him, Rosie babbles in delight, and Sherlock smiles faintly to himself at the sound of his favourite audience.</p><p>“Composing?” John asks, his voice suddenly nearer. He knows, by now, he is the only one who can speak whilst Sherlock is playing without risk of having a bow thrown with some force in his direction.</p><p>“Thinking,” Sherlock replies, picking up a slightly higher pitch as he does so, the notes more playful and fast now.</p><p>“Is there much difference in that?” John asks, and Sherlock, as always, is so astounded by the revelation that John knows him more than any other person ever has, that he knows so well how Sherlock’s thoughts play into his music, that he almost stumbles to a halt. And John, noticing, tuts playfully. “Careful,” he says, coming even closer until Sherlock can feel his breath on the back of his neck, “You’ll ruin the piece with those shaky hands of yours.”</p><p>“I assure you, John, my hands are as still as they have ever been,” Sherlock replies, keeping his voice as steady as possible and drawing a note out into another careful vibrato as proof, “The same, however, cannot be said for you.”</p><p>“Hmm,” John hums in amusement, “When did you get so good at insults?”</p><p>“I believe you bring out the worst in me,” Sherlock replies, “Though most would think it the other way around.”</p><p>And John lets out an unrestrained giggle that’s so beautiful Sherlock could never hope to compose anything to its standards, and finally the detective allows himself to turn just a little, until John’s face is in field of sight, carefree and still creased from laughing, light dancing in his eyes. Over the last few months Sherlock has taught himself patience. Moments like this are to be savoured, slow and careful, not to be taken for granted, each one painstakingly transcribed into his mind palace no matter how much space they take up in there. He allows himself this like he has allowed himself no other triviality before.</p><p>Now, finally looking at John for the first time since so early that morning, he feels the notes drift from his violin almost without his input, the usual slow piece he composed for John so many months ago, but this time the notes twist themselves into something more, something with a deeper meaning even Sherlock himself can’t quite work out, some inner working of his mind that he’s blocked away from his thoughts influencing his playing. John’s eyes move downwards, linger on the violin for a while, and then flicker back up to meet Sherlock’s, a deep intensity in his gaze that almost knocks Sherlock backwards. His hand on the bow trembles, and John, more and more observant these days it would seem, reaches out and catches his wrist gently. The music screeches to a halt at the exact same time Sherlock’s brain does, and in the silence that’s left behind he’s uncomfortably aware of the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.</p><p>“Not heard that one before,” John murmurs after a moment, voice low, as if afraid to speak too loud in the sudden quietness of their flat.</p><p>“Just something new,” Sherlock replies equally as quietly, “ A new feeling.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” John asks, “What’s that?”</p><p>Sherlock pauses for a moment, searching quickly through the stacks of dictionaries in his mind palace for the best word he can find. His gaze sweeps sideways, to where Rosie’s on her playmat on the floor, almost old enough to hold herself sitting up now. She’ll be walking soon. Then his eyes travel slowly, to the picture frame now sitting amongst the chaos on the mantelpiece, and to the photo within. What John had so irritatingly called a ‘selfie’, taken on his phone during a case a while ago, when they’d gotten a chance to go for a walk between stake outs. Behind the two of them, the Sussex Downs stretch out, miles of beautiful rolling hills and open sky. And yet in the photo, Sherlock’s eyes, so hopelessly filled with love, are turned towards only John. Below the limits of the camera’s range, John’s free hand had been tightly entwined with his, and Sherlock had never felt more at peace, even later when Lestrade had seen the photo and laughed just slightly.</p><p>Slowly, Sherlock lets his eyes glance back up at John, and finds the other man looking at him, expectant, and finds that answer that’s been waiting for him the whole time.</p><p>“Contentment,” he tells John, and the smile that spreads across John’s face just seconds before the doctor steps forward to carefully press their lips together is the brightest thing that Sherlock’s seen all day.</p><p>*****</p><p>Later, long past sunset, with Rosie dozing in John’s arms on the sofa, the entire trio wearing matching smiles of gentle domestic bliss on their faces, Sherlock plays again. He plays the feeling of John’s kisses, gentle and soothing and insistent each time, of their hands, long smooth violin player’s fingers pressing into shorter, roughly calloused ones, and of the gentle ebb and flow of soft domesticity that these quiet moments in their life bring.</p><p>Mycroft has always told Sherlock that caring is not an advantage. Sherlock had always thought that sentimentality is weakness. Both, it would seem, have been wrong.</p><p>Caring is powerful, strong, supporting. It seeps into everything Sherlock does and everything he thinks, threatens to overtake and overwhelm him every day with the amount of love that has made its way into a heart he once thought he didn’t have. And sentimentality, now, is everything he has. Sentimentality carries him forwards in every movement and thought that makes him the person he is. Sentimentality, to Sherlock, is music.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>just a little oneshot i did to get myself through some writer's block but then i really liked it and decided to post it. i wrote this with a migraine tho so if parts of it are nonsensical or like riddled with typos, that's why. also set at chrtimas (sorta) time because i only ever go to london in winter so it's just always winter in london in my brain?? idk. </p><p>also, for anyone wondering:<br/>saccharine = excessively sweet or sentimental<br/>rhapsody = an ecstatic expression of feeling or enthusiasm, often in music</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>